Hijo Destrozado
by oucellogal
Summary: Amanda Rollins is still reeling from her nightmares when a late-night visitor shows up, broken from his own. Spoilers through 16x12, "Padre Sandunguero." Rollaro, but you probably knew that already. One-shot. Complete.


**A/N**: The title of this story is a play on the title of Episode 16x12, "Padre Sandunguero" ("Charming Father"); in English, it translates to "Shattered Son."

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**Hijo Destrozado**

It's just past ten on a Wednesday night. I'm lounging on my living room couch, paying bills on my computer, half-watching a rerun of that show about those detectives in Philly who solve old murders. Frannie's sitting on my feet, keeping them warm, and the open bottle of bourbon on the coffee table is doing the same for the rest of me.

Such is the glamorous life of Detective Amanda Rollins, Manhattan SVU.

There's a knock at my door. Gotta be that Chinese I ordered half an hour ago. I set my computer on the coffee table, slip my feet out from underneath Frannie, and creak across the cold floorboards.

"Comin', just a sec." I grab some cash out of the kitchen drawer and fling the door open…

…but it's not my Chinese food.

It's Nick.

My guard goes up as I stuff the cash into the pocket of my jeans. What the hell is he doing here? I told him I wanted space, I told him I'd let him know if I needed him, but here he is anyway. Saint Nick with his savior complex. Can't he leave well enough alone?

"Nick, I said I—"

But then he lifts his head and looks at me, and the words tumble back down my throat.

His eyes are swimming with tears, the fine lines around them etched deeper than they were last time I saw him. He's biting his lips to keep them from trembling; the vein in his forehead pulses with the effort of holding it together. His hair is mussed, his tie is loose…he looks like he's been to hell and back. Like he's come face to face with the worst of his nightmares.

I know all too well how that feels.

"Oh, my God." The sick chill of dread washes through me as I step aside to let him in. "Is—is Zara…?" That girl is his heart. If something happened to her…

"Zara's fine." He can barely get the words out.

My mind races with the possibilities. "Is it your mom?"

"She's fine. Everyone's just _fine_. Only one who's got a problem is...me." He laughs, a strange, bitter laugh that almost sounds like a sob, then looks at the floor and swallows hard.

I shove a lock of hair behind my ear. "You wanna talk about it?"

He shakes his head.

"You want a drink?"

Another shake no.

My heart aches at the sight of a single tear sneaking out of the inner corner of his eye. "Nick, whatever you need, you got it, okay?"

I lay one hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek, and he breaks. He breaks, and he breaks, and all I can do is hold onto him as he sobs, hoping I can keep all the pieces in place until we can put him back together again.

I help him to the couch, where we sink down next to Frannie, and I wrap him in my arms and pull his head to my chest. His tears soak through my shirt; his shoulders shake with what seems like a lifetime of pain. His anguish is so palpable I find myself weeping along with him, my own tears slipping from my eyes and into his hair. But…in a strange way, I'm glad he came over. That he's here, and not trying to bear this load alone. That he trusts me enough to let me see him fall apart.

That I can focus on someone's nightmares besides my own.

Finally, his emotions are spent. He stills in my arms, takes a few shaky breaths, and looks up at me, his eyes red-rimmed, his lashes wet and glued together. Offering a watery smile, I brush the moisture from his cheeks, then press a lingering kiss to his forehead.

His grip on me tightens. His fingers dig into my back. His eyes are brimming with questions now, questions he can't find the words to ask. Questions I can't find the words to answer.

So I stand up and take him by the hand. He follows me into the bedroom. Silent. Trusting.

And there I comfort him the only way I know how.

When we're finished, Nick still doesn't say anything. He can't. What we've just shared is too deep. But when he looks at me, there's a peace in those bottomless brown eyes that wasn't there before.

He's not okay. Not yet. But he's better.

Sometimes better is good enough.

He lays his head on my chest, his ragged breaths gradually slowing down. Evening out. I thread my fingers through his hair, pressing an occasional kiss into it. As the minutes pass, his head gets heavier, and before long, he's snoring softly. His closed eyes flit back and forth above the twin arcs of coal-black lashes. His face is smoother now. Tranquil.

I snuggle into my pillows, pull him closer, and draw the blankets over us, hoping and praying that this slumber, however long it lasts, can give him a break from his nightmares.

My own eyes grow heavy. I let them fall closed.

Maybe I can get a break from my nightmares, too.


End file.
